


Tea and Sympathy

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Greg knows a little sign language, Greg loses his voice, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft gets mushy gushy, Mystrade Monday, i guess it's, mystrade, not exactly hurt/comfort but not not hurt/comfort, sherlock is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: Greg temporarily loses his voice from a case. If he doesn't stop talking for while, though, he could do permanent damage. Mycroft does his best to help him cope.Mystrade Monday: "I just really miss talking to you."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 5
Kudos: 116





	Tea and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Norah Jones' "In the Morning." The first two lines are also
> 
> I can't stop myself from callin'/  
> Callin' out your name 
> 
> which is more apt than even I can take credit for.

Greg thought his week couldn’t get any worse.

Famous last words, of course.

After shouting himself hoarse weeks prior, he had been fighting the gravel in his throat with honeyed tea, cough drops, and whispers. He was losing. His throat felt raw, his words scraping no matter what volume. 

Sally finally convinced him to see a doctor, having pulled the “gotta set a good example” card. Begrudgingly, he dragged himself there, only to get worse news. He opened his mouth, whether to argue or ask questions he wasn’t sure, but the doctor cut him off. 

“Uh-uh Mr Lestrade,” she tutted, “I would recommend not talking unless absolutely necessary.” She swiveled in her chair just in time to miss the dark glare he shot her way. He stared down at the paper she had handed him and uncapped the pen, but his mind was blank.

“No questions?” 

He shook his head vigorously and scrawled a couple bullet points.

  * how long no talking?
  * Meds?



And perhaps most importantly:

  * WORK?????



The doctor scrunched her nose at his list. 

“There’s no simple cure, unfortunately. What you really need to focus on is not making it any worse. I can sign you up for vocal training, and here’s a pamphlet on preventative behaviors like drinking water and reducing stress levels.”

Frustrated, he tapped roughly on his last point. 

“Mr Lestrade, you need to understand that if your vocal nodules become more acute then we may need to consider surgery. Taking the time to heal now will mean much less work missed than a later surgery and the resulting recovery time.”

He had nothing to say to that, but as he stepped tiredly into the hallway she added one more slip of paper to the top of his pile. _So you’re thinking of quitting smoking?_ it asked. He let the door swing shut behind him. 

Once out on the street, he pulled out his phone to call Mycroft. 

“My?” he croaked.

“Gregory,” Mycroft sounded more than a little concerned, “should you be talking?”

“No.” He wasn’t sure why he felt like crying.

“Well then,” Mycroft’s tone turned business-like, “hang up, and I will text you.”

“I love you,” Greg rasped through the grating lump in his throat.

“I love you, too, dearest. I’m hanging up now.”

Greg nodded, thumbing to his messages where he watched the typing bubbles through watery eyes.

_Listen to your doctor. Come home, and we can figure this out together.  
It is also easier to access your work servers from my computer. _

Greg smiled and stepped to the curb where the black car had just slid into the loading zone.

Despite the emergency meeting with his team -- in which he redistributed most of his leadership and off-site responsibilities in exchange for a sickening amount of desk work -- and Mycroft’s experienced manipulations of his supervisors, there was bound to be some unaccounted-for elements. 

“Don’t you know sign language?” John stage-whispered, but Sherlock only grinned. 

“ _I_ do, but George here is struggling with rudimentary fingerspelling.”

John glanced worriedly at Greg, who was being forcibly restrained by Donovan. 

“If you get arrested for beating him up, then _I_ have to be the one to deal with him,” she hissed.

Growling, then wincing and rubbing his throat, Greg shook her off and stalked over. He shoved his list at John and retreated to his office.

“Your handwriting is an embarrassment to doctors!” Sherlock shouted after him, and Greg heard John protest with a loud “Oy!” before he slammed the door shut.

His handwriting did prove to be a problem. 

“You want,” Sally squinted at his mini whiteboard, “what now? Chock of snap?”

Greg groaned and snatched back the board, but not before Sally whacked him with her notebook. 

“No noises!”

C H E C K T H E S H O P, he spelled out carefully and heaved a sigh of relief at her hum of comprehension. He scowled at the ceiling after she’d left and practiced the litany of rants he’d built up over his enforced period of silence.

At the end of a very tiring week, Greg collapsed on the sofa. Behind him, he heard the quiet clink of Mycroft preparing tea and closed his eyes until he felt a familiar weight dip into the cushion beside you. 

“Your team has performed admirably in your absence,” Mycroft commented, sliding another small whiteboard onto his lap. 

Greg just shrugged, then sighed. _I just really miss talking to you_ , he wrote. 

“I miss talking to you, as well,” Mycroft returned, a gentle thumb wiping a traitorous tear from his cheek. He frowned, but Mycroft pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Talking _at_ you is not equivalent.” Greg rolled his eyes but didn’t hold back his smile. “Nor adequate.”

He leaned back, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your voice?”

Greg craned his neck to meet Mycroft’s serious gaze.

“I love your voice,” Mycroft nuzzled the top of his head. “I love your taking-charge-at-work voice. I love your mediating voice. I love your subtle interrogation voice, and I love your direct interrogation voice.”

Greg only shook his head, but Mycroft wasn’t finished. 

“I love your so-help-me-god voice when you once again manage to be patient with Sherlock. I love the cheerful voice you save for when you work with children.”

He turned and burrowed his head into Mycroft’s neck, inhaling deeply.

“I love your voice in the morning when you are grumpy, and your voice when you are exasperated, and your voice when you are weary. I love your sleepy voice, and your bedroom voice--”

Greg chuckled at that.

“--and your voice in my voicemail box, and your voice singing in the shower when you believe I am not yet home.”

Greg elbowed him.

“I love your voice,” Mycroft repeated quietly, “and I would like to know I can hear it whenever I want to. Promise me you will take care of yourself?”

Greg took a soft breath in, then out. He nodded.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered into his hair.

He struggled upright, twisting to face Mycroft and cradling his face between his hands. He kissed him once, gently, and pulled back to meet his gaze.

Mycroft smiled. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had a coaching job where I was losing my voice every week for a while and, like Greg, had to go around scribbling on a little whiteboard. Another friend of mine (from the same job whoops) is having surgery from the long-term damage. This is not a joke, people! When I saw this week's prompt, I immediately thought of this.
> 
> Also, that Norah Jones song is beautiful, and I highly recommend it. The whole album, actually. It's a mood.


End file.
